Live Review: Sorority Noise, We Set Sail

A modest but responsive crowd greets local emo five-piece We Set Sail for tonight's festivities — if that's the right word — at The Brightside, the audience clearly ready to throw themselves head-first into the approaching long weekend.

The band open with a soundbite from High Fidelity — John Cusack musing, "What came first? The music or the misery?" — before they launch into Animal, Mineral, Vegetable, the first track from their excellent 2016 album Feel Nothing. The group's brand of '90s-flavoured, heart-on-sleeve, thought-rock does an admirable job of bringing out the best in their audience, guitarist/vocalist Paul Voge delivering the goods banter-wise in-between songs. They even pause to wait for a bar-bound punter to return to her spot — along with a trio of decidedly animated head-bangers, she's been an especially valuable member of the front lines, dancing to everything the band puts forth tonight — before proceeding, a genuinely endearing moment of mutual respect between the musicians and their audience.

They hit additional highlights with Snails and the slow churn of This Could Be The Tragedy We've Been Waiting For before rounding out with their stellar tune Reminders Written On Maps, returning once again to High Fidelity territory for Jack Black to precede the song with a fitting, "OK, buddy, uh, I was just trying to cheer us up, so go ahead, put on some old sad bastard music; see if I care." You should care, Jack, because We Set Sail do sad-bastard with serious style.

By the time they finish, the audience has swelled to an almost totally full room, and Connecticut indie-punk luminaries Sorority Noise take the stage to a wild response. The band start things off with the palm-muted introspection of Nolsey, from 2015's Joy, Departed, which erupts in a heaving release that sees frontman Cam Boucher and his bandmates burst into animated performance, all stage jumps and headbangs; Boucher even navigates a mid-song strap mishap during the rock-out.

The confessional, relatable nature of Sorority Noise's songs means this gig doubles as one massive sing-along, the amassed audience giving back to the visiting musicians on stage giving so freely of themselves for us. It's also a night for crowdsurfers — the first already sails across the pit by the time the band dig into Blonde Hair, Black Lungs, the second during the energetic Where Are You?, from this year's stellar full-length You're Not As _____ As You Think — and, by night's end, this writer had loses count after the seventh such feat.

The atmospheric, heartbreaking Second Letter From St Julien is a welcome but devastating break in the frenzy, though it does result with a broken snare drum and a detour into a new song from an upcoming 7", mostly handled by Boucher solo. Things pick up again with Corrigan, leading the crowd into a total mad pit of passion, sustained through the cheerful opening strut of Art School Wannabe and erupting into a vocally appreciated rendition of the self-deprecating Mediocre At Best.

Things hit another particularly evocative note with First Letter From St Sean, a deeply personal and affecting track that leads into a similarly moving cover of Manchester Orchestra's 100 Dollars. As if he hadn't already laid himself bare before us, Boucher precedes next song Using by opening up about his struggles with depression and being able to articulate his feelings, and lets us know that "everyone on this Earth is important", earning appreciative, encouraging applause from the legion here tonight.

The band wrap up their main set with recent singles A Better Sun and No Halo, the latter of which earns a particularly heartfelt and powerful physical and emotional response from the audience, even seeing one punter — the penultimate crowdsurfer of the night — jump up on stage and sing part of the final chorus. Sorority Noise earn one of the loudest, most sustained encore calls this writer has heard at recent shows, which the band graciously respond to — though Boucher, having hurt his knee earlier in the night ("I've been in excruciating pain the entire time," he admits), does so sitting down. Nobody minds at all, obviously, as the band finish with the fist-pumping, anthemic Disappeared, which sends the audience into one last gleeful, churning heave, all limbs and screams and joyful howling as Sorority Noise say goodbye for real, having solidified themselves in our hearts and minds as being as incredible as performers as they are as songwriters. Come back any time, please.